Bedtime Copyright © 2009 Julie Sea-Borne

Scabby knees, softened by pale pink bubbles.
She picks, morbid fascination in every line of her body.
Don’t do that, I say, and in my words hear the echo of my mother,
So many years ago, when I too bore my scabs with pride.
She splashes me, chortling aloud with joy,
And I envy the wonderful spontaneity of a child’s laugh,
Free of constraint, the shackles of respectability.

I lift her from the bath and, swathed in oversized towels,
She shuffles, penguin like, from the room.
Too heavy to carry now, I miss the feel of that small sturdy weight,
Nestled damply against my chest, arms clinging tightly around my neck.
And I marvel at the perfection of her body, shiny with its newness.
Like a computer still on factory settings, untainted and uncorrupted,
By the toxins of a world, gorged on its own excesses.

Her favourite part now, drying by the fire, the flames leap in her eyes,
And we talk, her and I, in this precious time, the hour between work and bed.
Mummy, how are rainbows made, she asks, and I ponder.
It’s a serious question, deserving of a serious reply, and I fumble,
At half remembered science, offering vague theories of light refraction and raindrops,
Until she stops me, her eyes wide with the wisdom of ages.
I expect the unicorns put it there, she says, and I’m silenced, humbled, it is a good answer.

Warmly dressed in pyjamas, I tuck her into her pink bed,
Skin golden in the comforting bloom of the nightlight, eyes already heavy.
I wish she could stay for longer, in this magical world, where Santa will always visit,
Where the existence of unicorns is without doubt, and Teddy can really talk.
The little brown bear is tucked firmly under her chin. He looks at me.
His eyes, dim with cataracts from one too many trips through the wash, seem to twinkle,
As if to say, don’t worry, I’ll take it from here.